Endless Waltz
by genericpsuedonyms
Summary: The year was 1832. They were young, alive and in love—he with the Republic and she with a boy who would never be hers. Theirs was a doomed dance in the quiet spaces between revolution and heartache. E/E. One-sided E/R. Semi-AU.
1. Chapter 1: Liberty, Winter 1831-1832

Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't profit. Et cetera, et cetera.

A/N: Mostly show-based, with some weird mixes of movie and book here and there. This is a three-parter that's already complete, but I need time to edit the 2nd and 3rd parts. So any constructive feedback is verily appreciated and encouraged.

**Chapter One: Liberty, Winter 1831-32 **

Winter had settled in Paris.

Eponine Thenardier darted left and right, skidding across the powdery snow with a stack of letters tucked under her arm. She was chilled to the bone, but for once, things could have been worse. Montparnasse had given her a new pair of boots the other week, and though they did little to keep out the cold, her feet were dry. Small miracles. It didn't matter where—or how—he got them.

Biting her lip, she forced a burst of speed from her tiring legs. It was Wednesday, the day when students and workers alike swarmed the streets. If she didn't hurry she'd miss him—the freckled student with the thick chestnut hair and warm green eyes. Her lungs burned as she swallowed gulp after gulp of sharp December air, and despite the biting wind that howled through the city, it was hard to keep a smile from her face as she rounded the corner.

What happened next came without warning. Later, when she arrived home, wet and shivering, she would replay the incident in her mind over and over again. She studied the collision from all angles, and yet reached the same conclusion: He had ghosted in from nowhere.

One minute she had been running at full speed, and the next there was a strange sense of gravity abandoning her, a brief weightlessness punctuated by a throbbing in her right shoulder. Blinking, Eponine realized she could feel the cold seeping through the rags on her back as she stared up at the snow wafting through the air. Somewhere beyond her sight, she could hear a man groaning and the shuffle of boots scraping against cobblestone.

"What in God's name...?" A golden-haired man in a red coat sputtered, his hand covering his face.

"Watch where yer going!" Eponine hissed, staggering back onto her feet. Shaking the snow from her hair, she flexed her fingers and rolled her ankles. Her shoulder pulsated with pain, but it was nothing compared to the panic that seized her once she saw the fine stitching of his clothes and the thick books scattered around them.

Not a man, but a student. Another bourgeois boy undoubtedly on his way home from a rally.

Shoulder forgotten, Eponine spun on her heel and sped down the street before making a hard left. She thought she could hear the student calling after her, but every second wasted was another week of waiting.

She weaved in and out of alleyways, zigzagging across main roads and hidden pathways. These were her streets, and to Eponine alone they spoke their deepest secrets. But for all their whisperings, the only things waiting for her in the square were fading footprints in graying slush.

Catching a cold for a boy who had most likely already left would be foolish. But Azelma was unwell and her parents were out on another job. So instead, she stood there, scanning each and every face until her fingers and nose turned red and numb from the cold.

She never noticed him until a hand clamped down on her arm.

"Fuck!" Eponine spat as she doubled over, eyes shut in a feeble attempt to blot out the white-hot pain coursing through her shoulder. There was a warm hand on her back as someone tried to help her upright, but she batted it away as soon as she caught her breath.

"Forgive me. I did not see that you were hurt."

"Wot do you want?" she snarled.

Eponine looked up and was met by a pair of stormy, bluish-grey orbs framed by a thoughtful brow and long golden curls. The man's expression was severe, though his face held the same sculpted gentleness as the angels she sometimes saw in churches. Hair tousled and cheeks reddened, he seemed out of breath. It was then she noticed he was wearing a red coat.

_It's him_. _That bourgeois student I crashed into..._

"Mademoiselle, I believe you dropped these."

Confused, her gaze traveled down to his outstretched hand and the familiar bundle grasped in his slender fingers.

"Those ain't yers!" she blurted, eyes wide as she groped under her arm to where her stack of letters should have been.

"I know. But they don't really belong to you either, do they?" he said with a reproving glare. His voice was clear and crisp, and though he spoke no louder than a whisper, to Eponine, his words seemed to ring out across the square.

Eponine felt the heat return to her cheeks. A girl had to eat and girls who didn't fancy a stranger's embrace had to be willing to compromise their dignity in other ways.

"Doncha know it's rude to stick yer nose where it don't belong?" She made a grab for the letters, but caught only air.

"It was rude to run off without apologizing," he said stiffly.

"Is that all? So sorry, yer Grace," Eponine sneered, spreading her chemise in a mock curtsy. "Now gimme my letters."

"Your manners, mademoiselle, are not in question." He said, eyebrow raised as he deftly dodged another attempt to steal back her letters.

"Cut the fancy talk. Wot d'ya want? A roll in the hay will cost ya pretty."

She tried not to be offended by the way he scrunched up his nose and turned in disgust. "Nothing of the sort. Just answer one question, and I will return your letters."

The student was too tall—the top of her head barely reached his shoulder—and too sturdy. Even if she scratched and clawed, she'd lose a fight. And she knew the price of returning home without those letters. No, there would be no cheating her way out of this one.

"Go on," Eponine folded her arms across her chest. "Ask it then."

He paused, brows furrowed in disbelief. For the first time since their crash encounter, Eponine thought he seemed unsure of himself.

"Were you on your way to the rally?"

The question hung in the air between them. Of all the things she had expected, that was nowhere near the top of the list. She let out a short bark of laughter. "Don't be daft. Wotcher think I'd do tha' fer?"

"Because we are hoping to help people like you," he said uneasily.

"Is that wot they teach you to do in them fancy schools? You _are _daft. Wot's a bourgeois boy like you goin' ta do? Change the world? Don' make me laugh."

It wasn't a total lie. And it had done exactly what she hoped. Anger made boys, especially passionate boys, careless. He had let his guard down, unconsciously lowering his arm until the letters were within easy reach. Eponine stilled. She had one shot, and one shot only.

"Then why are you here?"

"That's two questions, bourgeois boy." Quick as lightning, she snatched the letters out of his hand and disappeared down the nearest side street. She ran and ran and ran, through alleys and backstreets, until she was out of the Latin Quarter.

Later, when she was nursing her cheek from the slap her father had given her for the soggy letters, Eponine told herself she was only mildly disappointed he hadn't followed.

* * *

The bourgeois boy was a good speaker—that much she was certain. From her spot at the edge of the square, Eponine decided she liked the way his body moved when he got to a particularly rousing part of his speech. And even though most of what he said went over her head, the way his eyes burned made her want to believe.

It almost made up for the fact that she hadn't seen her freckled student since the new year.

Sighing, she forced herself to focus on the task at hand. Down the street, her loving parents and three-quarters of the Patron Minette were putting on a show for the charitable ladies slumming on their side of Paris. Today was Friday, and the con was simple. Draw them in with some story about a starving babe and graciously accept whatever they gave before nicking the rest. Her part was even simpler: Stay out of sight and watch for Javert.

It would have been even easier if her father hadn't insisted Montparnasse keep an eye on _her._

Dangerous and wild, her partner in crime was currently at his post between the bakery and wine shop. He might have been just as poor as she was, but it was impossible to tell. Though a tad too skinny for his height, Montparnasse cut a fine figure in his stylish clothes, the sharp angles of his face softened by a shock of raven-black hair.

Suddenly, she was glad the boy with freckles was nowhere near. For the first time in a while, Eponine was keenly aware of her ratty hair, swarthy skin and the tattered scraps of fabric hanging from her bony frame. She might have been pretty once, but now she was too scawny and too dirty to be anything but pitiful.

Turning her gaze back to the rally, she watched as the bourgeois boy worked the crowd into a frenzy. The wind carried snippets of a clear voice, which was then drowned out by the impassioned roar of the crowd. Sunlight glinting off his golden hair, he waved his arms as if he were conducting a symphony of political unrest.

Preoccupied, she didn't notice Montparnasse sauntering over until her nostrils were assaulted by the acrid scent of his cologne. She hoped if she ignored him long enough, he would get the hint and leave her be. To her annoyance, he seemed content to simply stand there and stare.

"What d'ya want?" Eponine spat.

Montparnasse's pale lips twitched upwards. "Is that how you say hello to an esteemed colleague?"

"Go back to yer post, 'Parnasse."

"You're one to talk. You've been in here," he tapped his forehead, "all afternoon. Imagine what daddy would say."

"Piss off," she hissed. "Go bother someone else if you're bored."

Montparnasse frowned as he closed the gap between them, twirling a lock of her hair around his finger. "Why 'Ponine. What lovely boots."

Eponine fought the urge to shudder as she plucked herself from his grasp. "If I'd known you'd make a fuss, I'd have tossed 'em into the river."

The crowd erupted into a loud cheer, startling them both.

"I wish he'd shut up," Montparnasse muttered. "I can barely concentrate with all this racket."

"Yeah, well at least he's got somethin' interestin' to say."

Montparnasse's eyes glittered darkly as he licked his chapped lips.

"It's no skin off my back," he drawled as his finger began tracing circles on her right shoulder, making her wince. "I'm sure _Azelma—_"

"Shut yer mouth," Eponine snapped. Her sister was fourteen and stupid. All it would take for Montparnasse to ruin her would be a few kind words and a smile.

"Oooh, hit a nerve," he said, lips twisted in a wide grin. Once upon a time she had liked his smiles. Then it had been light and full of mischief. Now they only promised sinister plots and calculated truths. "No need to be jealous, 'Ponine. You've always been my favorite _Jondrette_."

His breath was warm and moist as it tickled her ear. Spindly fingers slid up her arm to the column of her neck, as his other hand slowly began hiking up the edge of her chemise.

Shutting her eyes, Eponine tried to brush off the fear she felt at the sudden hardness pressing into her hip and the way his breath hitched as he whispered her name. When she opened them again, she saw her freckled student staring at her from the stage.

Grabbing his wrist, she wrenched Montparnasse's hand from her skirt as she landed a hard kick to his shins. "I'm not yer _whore,_" she spat, heart racing as she turned and took off for the opposite end of the square.

She felt rather than heard his footsteps thundering after her, his ghostly fingers squeezing her neck as they left ten purple reminders of how she had wronged him.

Eponine dived into the crowd, hunting for the spaces between jostling bodies that would put more distance between her and Montparnasse. Her vision tunneled on the backstreet next to the Cafe Musain that led directly to the winding pathways behind the old convent. She didn't dare look back.

Briefly, she wondered what it would be like if things had been different, if her parents hadn't made a royal mess of everything. Maybe then she wouldn't have to fend off street rats and vipers. Maybe then she would have been beautiful. Maybe she could have been friends with her freckled student.

She was nearly there when she heard the shrill of a familiar whistle. Voices that minutes earlier had sang for the dawn of a new republic now cried in fear of one man. Eponine sucked in a deep breath through her teeth. The old inspector might not know her face, but he would know her name. _Both_ her names.

The students had abandoned the platform, scattering to the four winds in a mad dash to evade arrest and certain expulsion. Even the bourgeois boy had disappeared into the chaos. _It's now or never._

Throwing out her elbows, she shoved and kicked and scratched until she managed to wriggle free from the confusion. Escape was quick and easy after that. Peering out at the riot, Eponine cloaked herself in the shadows of Paris' forgotten nooks and crannies. Amid the chaos, she watched a young police officer wrestle a student to the ground, while another clocked a worker on the head with his baton. She had no illusions that they would be kinder to a girl. Pressing herself against the wall, she jumped as she heard the click of boots behind her.

"For such a clever girl, you're surprisingly predictable." Montparnasse sneered, his eyes brimming with a cold fury. Taking a step back, Eponine debated the merits of jumping back into the fray and letting the first officer she saw arrest her. At least then, neither Montparnasse nor her father would be able to lay a finger on her until morning.

"Go away 'Parnasse." Eponine crouched as she circled around him. "Don' you dare take another step. I'll scream if you do, I swear to God I will."

"Scream all you like 'Ponine. No officer would waste his time on you. Not in this mess." Montparnasse smirked as he opened his arms toward her. "If you beg for forgiveness, maybe I won't let Daddy beat you so roughly tonight."

"You'd have to catch me first."

Montparnasse gaped at her dumbly, not registering the barb until she had already doubled back into the riot. She slipped through the fingers of one officer, and then leapt over another student writhing on the ground before spotting an opening. Her insides burned as she sprinted past and each step was heavier than the last. But she didn't stop running, even as the ruckus behind her grew quieter and quieter. Up and down, up and down, her feet thudded against the pavement like hammers until finally, she fell to her knees. _Let him beat me to death then. I am ready to go._

But nothing came. Glancing around, Eponine realized that the streets had guided her into unfamiliar territory. The buildings weren't quite as rundown as in St. Michel—the signs on all the stores were freshly painted and there were fewer people milling about. And the few that did were well-dressed. Most didn't notice her, and the ones who did quickly averted their eyes.

"Just as well," she muttered to herself. There was no going home tonight. She'd abandoned her post, failed to warn her parents about Javert—though she was certain his hands were too full with students to notice a con—and Montparnasse would be sure to spin some tale her father would only be too happy to believe.

No, tonight she would take her chances on the streets.

* * *

Eponine had been wandering for the better part of an hour when she found him slumped against the wall, his cravat undone and golden hair tangled with sweat. Eyes shut and breathing heavily, the bourgeois boy's face was turned up toward the sky. He was not so fearsome now—not while the sound of his labored breaths echoed in the alley. Again, she marveled at his cold beauty and how different it was from the warmth she felt whenever she saw the freckled student.

She could touch him if she wanted. All she would have to do was take a few steps. Eponine wondered whether his skin would be warm underneath her fingers, or if he would feel like the cold stone he seemed to be made of. It was strange that a boy—she didn't think him a man, not with such an angelic face—could burn so brightly for a cause and yet seem so...unfeeling. But there he was, hiding in the shadows with her, his friends nowhere in sight.

The march of boots sounded in the distance. Eponine froze. Had they followed him all them all the way here? Poking her head around the corner, she spotted a group of police officers knocking on doors and stomping into alleyways. It would only a matter of time before they found him.

When she turned back his eyes had opened and were fixed on her. Dull recognition flickered over his features, but before he could open his mouth, Eponine held a finger up to her lips. _Come with me_, she mouthed before reaching forward and grabbing his hand. His skin was unbelievably warm, even in the frigid winter air. Warm and incredibly soft.

She retraced her steps, leading him a few paces further down the alleyway before shoving him behind a few discarded crates. "Stay," she whispered, silencing his questions with a stern look, "and don' make me regret this."

Squaring her shoulders, she strode out into the open, humming an off-key tune from her childhood. It didn't take them long to find her. Four officers—thankfully young, and from what she could tell, rather green—immediately surrounded her. Their leader, a dark haired man with a mustache, grabbed her arm.

"You there, have you seen a young man with blonde hair run through here?"

"Evenin' officer." Eponine smiled prettily, sashaying her skinny hips toward him. "Aren't you a pretty one."

"Answer the question." He said stiffly, though Eponine's smile widened as she caught his gaze flicker down to her chest. "Any assistance would be well-rewarded."

"Might be that I saw a handsome boy run off not too long ago," she said through lowered lids. "Toward the old convent near Rue Plumet. Dunno if he were blonde. Didn't catch a good look. Just that his face were pretty."

"You better not be lying," the officer sneered, grabbing her wrist, squeezing tightly. "What business does a gamine have in a neighborhood like this?"

Despite the desperate pounding of her heart, Eponine laughed. "When you don't got a proper house, everywhere is your home, m'sieur. 'Sides," she pulled out the corner of a crumpled paper from her bosom, "I were paid to deliver a letter."

Relief flooded her veins as the officer let go and the other officers averted their gazes elsewhere. He thanked her roughly, pressing a sou into her hand as he left. _Well rewarded indeed. That's why no one helps the police._

She waited until they had disappeared around the corner before hurrying back to where the bourgeois boy was hiding. "Quickly, m'sieur," she hissed, grabbing a fistful of his jacket before dragging him behind her. If they were unlucky, they would only have a few minutes before the mustached officer told Javert her piss-poor story and then they would come looking for _her_ too. Or if luck was on their side, they would chase down her fake student to the convent—and if they were to just so happen upon Montparnasse, her father and the rest of the Patron Minette in the middle of a heist...well Eponine wasn't going to complain.

He kept pace with her quite easily, even when she suddenly ducked into narrow spaces between shops barely wide enough to fit a full grown man. He only stumbled once when she had skidded to a halt after spotting another officer prowling around an empty intersection. She had clamped her hand over his mouth, and the two had slowly backed away into the shadows.

They only stopped when the sun began to sink in the horizon, staining the sky brilliant shades of pink, red and orange. _What an unlikely pair_, she thought as she leaned against the wall to catch her breath. He did the same, sweat trickling down his brow despite the cold air. They had twisted and turned their way through Paris for hours, and had now reached the Seine.

"Best you stay out of sight tonight." Eponine watched the sunset. "They really don' like ya, bourgeois boy."

He paused for a moment, eyes closed. "My name is Enjolras."

"That's a bourgeois name if I ever heard one." She ignored her aching feet as she brushed off her skirts and made to leave. The nights were cold and she had no desire to freeze by the river.

"I know you," he said slowly, opening his eyes. "You're the girl with the stolen letters who lied about showing up to every rally looking for Marius."

Heart thumping wildly in her chest, Eponine struggled to appear calm. _Marius_, she thought, testing the sound of it in her head. _Marius, Marius, Marius._ Now she had a name to keep her warm on all those lonely walks at night, to give voice to her sighs of longing when no one was around to hear. She was so excited, she forgot to be surprised Enjolras had even noticed her hovering at every rally.

"I dunno know who yer talking about," she mumbled when she noticed his cold eyes peering at her strangely.

"Sorry to disappoint, but he wasn't here today. He hasn't been coming for a while." His mouth twisted as if he had eaten something sour.

"Oh?" she said dumbly. That couldn't have been right. She could've sworn she'd seen _Marius_ when Montparnasse had...and just like that, Eponine came crashing back down to Earth.

"The fool is a Bonapartist," he spat, as if that explained everything.

"Wot's wrong wif Bonaparte?" Her father had idolized the man when she was a little girl. Or at least that's how she chose to remember it. Back when the inn was prosperous and her mother would dote on her with kind words and expensive presents.

"There isn't enough time in the world to explain what's wrong with Bonaparte," he muttered darkly.

"That's wot yer having a tiff over?" she snorted. "Some freedom fighters you lot are—squawkin' amongst yerselves like old hags."

"Freedom fighters?"

"You fancy yerselves liberators. Like we're too stupid to know just how wretched we are. Yer all jus' schoolboys and you don' know nuffin 'bout nuffin. You've never starved, hungered or gone cold to th' bone. You've never wotched the riv'r and wonted to throw yerself in 'coz dyin' couldn't possibly be worse than _this_. Well I don' need no liberator, m'sieur and I don' want one."

She sniffled, wiping away at the angry tears that had leaked down her cheeks with the rough wool of her coat sleeve. It chafed her skin, but it was better than letting some hoity-toity rich boy see her cry. There wasn't any point in her tears anyway—they wouldn't change the fact that her father would beat her if she went home, that Marius had no idea she existed and that nothing would ever change no matter how much she might wish it.

Eponine didn't have to look to know he was staring off at some distant point in the horizon. He had barely regarded her since her tirade, though he showed no intention of leaving. Fidgeting, her fingers played with the fraying hem of her chemise.

"What is your name?"

She hesitated. It would be wiser to walk away without a word. But he had given her Marius' name, and she hated the thought of being in his debt.

"Eponine. That's wot they call me."

They didn't speak another word. Instead, they sat together in silence as vibrant purples, pinks and oranges bled across the Parisian sky. She stayed until twilight fell and then slipped back into the shadows. He didn't follow.

She hadn't expected him to, but if she were being honest, she was still disappointed.


	2. Chapter 2: Equality, Spring 1832, part 1

**AN:** Well...I was unsure whether to continue posting...since nobody seemed to like chapter one...but since I've already gone and written it all, why not? :). Turns out this second chapter was over 7,000 words...so I ended up splitting it into two for readability. I've no idea if what I'm doing here is any good, so any feedback would be great. Feedback is my crack.

* * *

**Chapter Two:** Equality, Spring 1832, part 1

The woman had stopped her near Notre Dame, handed her a cream-colored envelope and tossed two coins at her feet before disappearing into the crowd. If it weren't for the letter in her hand and the glint of metal in the sunlight, she would have said she imagined it all.

From what Eponine had glimpsed, she had been well-heeled woman with a stern mouth, long flaxen hair and brooding eyes. The woman looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn't say where she would've known a bourgeois lady nearly twice her age.

It was a thin envelope, but the paper was thick and heavy—nothing like the thin, easily torn forgeries her father had her scatter across Paris twice a week. On the front, there was an address scrawled in loopy script that was difficult to read. Not that she could've actually read it if it had been written more simply. Cheeks burning, Eponine had been tempted to shred the letter into a thousand pieces and let the wind carry it wherever it pleased. Instead, she buried the remains of her pride and shoved the coins into her pocket.

Ten whole francs. It was enough to buy Azelma a proper meal, or perhaps some new clothes. Winter had mostly melted into spring, but sometimes, she could still feel its cold embrace lingering in the night air. The boots Montparnasse had given her were still good, if not a bit worn at the heels. But if she'd learned anything, it was that every one of his gifts came with a price—one that she was increasingly unwilling to pay.

But it mattered little. Today was Sunday and Marius would be at the park with his books. Even now, Eponine struggled to control the excitement bubbling in her veinsand the spring in her step.

Her friendship with Marius was the best thing to come out of her return home. She'd trudged back to that dilapidated tenement two weeks earlier with a grumbling stomach and a heavy heart, only to find him living in the apartment next door. To think that all this time, the only thing separating them had been a few inches of plaster! Her father's screams and the blows that came after were a blur.

He had been surprised the first time she approached him. But he was good and kind and everything she had ever imagined him to be. He extended his friendship with no questions asked and she ate it up with a hunger she hadn't known she had. And now that she could see Marius whenever she wanted, there wasn't a need to spend hours at political rallies for a paltry glimpse.

She still did, on occasion. But she didn't _need _to.

As she neared the park entrance, she patted down her hair and smoothed the wrinkles in her skirt. Marius was sitting on his favorite bench under the trees with a thoughtful smirk on his face as he read a passage from a large leather-bound text.

"You look like yer havin' fun."

"Ah, 'Ponine, I was wondering when you'd get here," Marius said as he glanced up from his book with a warm smile. She couldn't help but return it, especially as he offered her a hefty chunk of bread from his satchel.

"Didn't mean ta make you wait, m'sieur," she said, flushing as she took a bite. It was soft and buttery—nothing like the coarse, stale loaves she was used to.

"It's no trouble, really. I was just catching up on my studies." He motioned to the book on his lap, his face scrunching up in distaste. "Though in all honesty, I'd much rather do anything but."

She let him ramble about his life at university while she ate. He told her stories about his friends and the trouble they got into, his classes and a slew of other things she didn't quite understand. She laughed at all the right parts and nodded when he seemed to be looking for approval. Truthfully, he could have been talking about anything. She simply loved to listen to his voice and lived for the sparkle in his eyes right before he was about to tell a joke.

When she had finished eating, she contented herself with basking in his presence. It wasn't until another well-dressed woman shot them a dirty look as she walked past that Eponine was reminded of the letter and the ten francs in her pocket.

"Say, m'sieur. Can I ask a favor?"

Marius furrowed his brow. "Anything, if it is within my power—and the law."

Eponine tried not to let his comment hurt. The same thin walls she praised for letting her be closer to him, she cursed for their inability to mask the truth of the Thenardier home. They did not often speak of her father and his ill-gotten spoils, but the specter of how she occupied her time away from him always lurked beneath the surface.

"It's nuffin' like that, m'sieur." She pulled the letter out of her pocket. "A bourgeois lady paid me to deliver this letter this morning. But I can't read the address and she ran off 'fore I could ask."

Relief washed over Marius face, but was quickly replaced by guilt. Eponine decided she loved him a little more for it.

"My friend lives in this neighborhood," Marius said, his eyebrows rising higher on his forehead. "It's by Rue Saint-Denis."

Eponine frowned. "Why would a rich lady be writin' to someone living _there_?"

"Perhaps she has a secret lover, and that's why she ran away so quickly," Marius teased. Eponine laughed with him, stuffing the letter back into her pocket when he offered it to her. "Do you still intend to deliver it 'Ponine?"

"Yes. She paid. And besides," a wicked smile crept across Eponine's face. "I'd never stand in the way of true love."

"To think, a man could have been waiting all day for that letter, and here you've been listening to me chatter away. It's decided," Marius stuffed his texts back into the satchel. "You must deliver the letter at once. Unfortunately I must meet a friend, but I'll escort you as far as Musain."

He flashed her a winning smile that Eponine locked away into her memory. Jumping to her feet, she followed him eagerly, her heart soaring to the music of ten francs jingling in her pocket. Perfect days didn't come often, and she wanted to cherish this one forever.

* * *

His apartment was plain and cramped. The bed was pushed into a corner and often served as a secondary shelf for his notes and papers. There was some furniture, though nothing extravagant or unnecessary. Above his desk was a small window. If the glass hadn't been spotted with grime, it would've offered a decent view of Paris. But when he was working, Enjolras was blind to the outside world.

He sat hunched over his desk, pouring over his notes in preparation for the next week's rally. Enjolras moved only to either turn the page or scratch some rough ideas into his notebook, barely taking notice of the growing stiffness in his neck. Three hours had passed in this manner since Combeferre had dropped off some food, which lay uneaten on the bed.

Sighing, Enjolras rubbed his eyes. He had been up since before dawn and though it was still daylight outside his window, his bed—regardless of the pamphlets littered across the covers—would have been a welcome distraction. But there simply wasn't enough time. Tonight there was a meeting at Cafe Musain, where his friends would be counting on him to relay all that he had learned.

That morning, he had attended his first meeting among the leaders of the Society for the Rights of Man, and the news had been disturbing. More were dying, particularly in Paris' poorest neighborhoods. There had even been dark murmurs of poison in the wells—how else could such a sudden, violent outbreak of cholera be explained? Coupled with the harsh winter and increased cost of living, the people were finally beginning to stir.

But not fast enough for Enjolras. With every day that passed, another wretched soul died another meaningless death that he was powerless to stop. Sometimes, he despaired that all his efforts were in vain, that the people would not rise. In those moments, he remembered _her_ and the bitterness in her voice the night he had nearly been arrested by the police.

She had slipped back into the night so quietly, part of him was now certain she had been a manifestation of his self-doubt. He had searched for her at every rally since, his eyes always drawn to the edges of the crowd. But she was nowhere to be found, not even after he had made amends with Marius.

Shaking his head, Enjolras turned his thoughts back to the task at hand. It was half-past four; Courfeyrac and Marius would already be at Musain preparing for the meeting. The rest of them, himself included, would be expected to arrive in an hour. _There's never enough time_, he thought bitterly.

His musings were interrupted by a series of hurried knocks. Cursing under his breath, he cast one last longing look at his bed before trudging to the door. He did not keep many friends and fewer still who knew where he lived. No, this was most likely another drunk in his building looking for an easy mark.

"Who's there? I've no time for solicitors."

"I've a letter, m'sieur." The voice was raspy, and too high for a man.

Enjolras frowned. _Better be prudent._ "Who sent you?"

There was a pause, followed by an indignant huff. "I didn't get a good look, m'sieur."

"Then I bid you good day." Enjolras had only taken a few steps when he heard the panicked voice call out to him.

"Wait, wait! An older bourgeois woman with yellow hair and a sour face."

Enjolras stiffened. _There are a million women in Paris who match that description. _Still, he had to be sure. "The woman...was she outside the Notre Dame?"

"...How did you know that m'sieur?"

"One moment." Fumbling with the latches on the door, Enjolras tried to steady his shaking hands. His aunt had agreed to only write him for one reason and one reason alone. Dread pooled at the bottom of his stomach as he swung open the door.

She stared at him, open mouthed and jaw dangling. If he wasn't so sure his expression mirrored hers, it would have pleased him to know she _could _be surprised at all. _Eponine. The girl's name is Eponine_. She was skinnier since he last had a proper look at her, bones jutting out where there ought to have been flesh. Her dark locks were just as wild as ever, masking a dirt-streaked face that was usually twisted into a scowl. It had only been a few weeks, perhaps a month at most, since she had saved him from the police, and yet the holes in her rags seemed bigger.

Perhaps he was just seeing her in the daylight.

"Never thought a rich boy like you would be livin' in a dump like this," Eponine blurted, recovering from her shock.

"Yes, well," Enjolras scowled, disliking the tone in her voice. "I never said I was rich."

"You didn't have to. Anyone with two ears would have known that," she said, mocking his proper accent. "But I s'pose I can't call ya bourgeois boy anymore."

"The letter," he said, cheeks red as he held out his hand. Eponine grinned impishly, though it faltered as her dark chocolate eyes studied his face. She paused for a moment, lips pursed as if she were going to ask him a question but then thought better of it.

"This is familiar, ain't it? Only now it's me that's got somefin' you wont."

"The letter," he repeated through clenched teeth.

"Not so nice is it? Someone teasin' you over somefink important."

"I apologize. Now give me my letter."

"I don' believe you."

"Mademoiselle, I would appreciate it if you would give me that letter."

"I don't give a rat's ass wot you want."

"Please give me the letter."

"No."

"Why not?"

"'Cuz now I don' feel like it."

"Just give me the damned letter!" He stepped out of his apartment, anger and desperation pulsing through his veins until he thought his head would explode. Eponine had fallen silent, meeting his outburst with an impassive stare. "What," he sneered. "Do you not have a witty response?"

That made her smile, though it was full of scorn and perhaps a bit of pity. "How disappointing. Turns out yer no different than the rest of us," she said as she reached over to tuck the letter into his waistcoat pocket. He searched for something to say, but his words had all turned to dust.

The minutes stretched as they stood there, locked in an awkward battle of wills. She had crossed her arms over her chest, challenging him to retreat to the safety of his apartment. He refused to budge. Something had changed in her estimation of him. She no longer resembled that angry gamine who had begrudgingly led him to safety, or that pitiful slip of a girl who pined after Marius from a distance. Whatever it was, her gaze, though cool and indifferent, now burned through him.

"For your troubles," he said stiffly. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his wallet and offered her a few coins. She let the money fall to her feet, the clink of metal against wood echoing in the corridor.

"Keep yer money, m'sieur. I don' want yer charity."

Enjolras watched as the gamine turned and bounded down the stairs. He remained there, motionless, until he could no longer hear the echo of her footsteps. A game had been played, and he was left with the distinct feeling he had lost.


	3. Chapter 3: Equality, Spring 1832, part 2

**AN:** Thanks for the lovely reviews and follows :). Here's the second part of chapter two; though its considerably longer than part one. Whoops. Things are gonna start getting a bit more AU-ish from here on, a lot more blending of the book, movie and musical. Hope you all like it. Please leave reviews and feedback, as always.

* * *

**Chapter Three:** Equality, Spring 1832, part two

Her mother had been wailing for hours. Her father was nowhere to be found. If she had to guess, he was probably out drinking. Gavroche had stopped by and then run off again, fading away like a ghost into the night.

Today was Tuesday, and Azelma was dead.

It shouldn't have been a surprise. Her sister had never been strong and half the city was slowly dying in their beds. They may not have had the money for medicine or a fancy doctor, but Eponine was well acquainted with the deadly thief that had stolen her sister.

She had heard every hurried whisper between her parents. They didn't dare speak its name. Cholera. 'It's not that, m'dear,' her father had said. 'It's a cold and Azelma's survived plenty o' those.'

Even so, she had prayed every moment of every day for a week that the color would return to Azelma's cheeks. She begged the Lord to end the vomiting, fevers and diarrhea, to spare the gentlest Thenardier such a miserable death.

She hadn't moved since they carted her sister's body away. When Eponine closed her eyes, she could still feel the warmth evaporating from Azelma's hand, her last words echoing in her head.

_It's okay, 'Ponine. We'll be together again soon._

Shuddering, Eponine wondered if Marius could hear everything that had happened. She had long since become immune to her mother's cries. The last of her tears had been spent days earlier. There would be no fancy funeral. No, Azelma was doomed to spend eternity in an unmarked ditch with countless other cholera victims.

She tried to remember the little girl who had clung to the hem of her skirts in Montfermeil. But already she was beginning to forget the sound of Azelma's voice, the contours of her face, her crooked smile. Her mind wandered back to the ten francs she'd earned from delivering the bourgeois boy's letter two weeks earlier. She had ran home then, eager to show Azelma her prize. They had spent hours dreaming of what they would do with it, only stopping when her sister erupted into a fit of violent coughs.

In the end, Azelma had begged her to safeguard the money. _'We'll buy somefink pretty when I'm better. Just us. It'll be somefink to look forward to.'_ It hadn't mattered. Their father had found it a few days later. He'd roared until Eponine thought the walls might come crumbling down around them. And while the sting of his backhand had been no worse than usual, that night she had bitterly cried herself to sleep.

The sound of the door opening drew Eponine back to reality.

"What a sight, indeed. My deepest condolences."

Montparnasse sauntered into the apartment, the click of his new boots echoing off the walls. He was quick to take her mother into his embrace. "There, there. Madame. Azelma was dear to us all."

Her mother blubbered something unintelligible, to which Montparnasse responded by rubbing soothing circles into her back. "Your husband will be home soon. In fact, he's sent me ahead to take Eponine," he fixed her with a pointed look, "away for a few hours. Wouldn't that be nice?"

Eponine felt chills run up her spine, but she didn't fight when he left her mother's side and wrapped his gloved fingers around her wrist. Her mother tried to stop him, grabbing a fistful of her ratty chemise as he tried to usher her out of the room. But Montparnasse put a quick end to it. Eponine winced as the sound of his hand against her mother's cheek rang in her ears.

She tried not to feel resentful when she felt her mother's fingers loosen.

He led her down some dark narrow street, saying they were supposed to meet the rest of the Patron-Minette somewhere near Rue Saint-Denis. But what Montparnasse didn't know was that his voice always hitched when he lied and that her father probably had sold him something she lost years ago. She didn't want to think what it had cost him or how angry Montparnasse would be when he realized the truth.

They arrived at their destination sooner than she would have liked. It was a fairly decent tavern, often filled with students and artists and poets spouting trite verses about one girl or another. It wasn't the type of place her father would frequent—the wine wasn't strong enough and the patrons' purses weren't worth the risk. But she could see its appeal. The corners were dark and smokey, and there were plenty of pretty young grisettes eager to have a tumble with a handsome face.

The owner, a squat man with ruddy cheeks, waved them over as soon as they walked in. He was playing cards with three other inebriated young men, one of whom was nursing an entire bottle of Cabernet by himself.

"Took long enuf gettin' here, 'Parnasse. Let someone else take the room a few minutes ago. You'll hafta wait." The owner flashed her a toothy grin. "She ain't nothin' but skin and bones. Friendly advice, lad: A man's got to have summat to hold onto."

"We can't all plow pigs and cows, my friend," Montparnasse said with a thin smile. He tugged her arm. "This is the Jondrette girl."

The owner laid his cards on the table, squinting as he studied her face. "The younger or older?"

"Ain't none but the older now." Eponine flinched. Casting her eyes to the floor, she was grateful Azelma had died before Montparnasse had the chance to properly crush her heart.

"Are we gonna play or are you gonna sit there and chat with strangers?" The man with the wine bottle said impatiently. He didn't strike her as anyone remarkable—his most noticeable characteristics being the mass of dark curls on top of his head and a rather large, hooked nose—but Eponine could have sworn she'd seen his face somewhere before.

"I paid you good money for the whole night," Montparnasse interjected coolly. "Now I find you've lent it to some dogs in heat while you gamble with drunks."

"What can I say?" The owner said, hands outstretched. "I'm a man of business."

"I don't give a fuck about your business," Montparnasse hissed. Eponine bit back a whimper as he dug his nails into her arm.

The owner's gaze flickered between her and Montparnasse. "Tell you what. I'll deal you into the game. You win, you can kick out the pervert upstairs and fuck his daughter on the same bed."

Eponine froze. She could still hear her mother's piercing shrieks when Azelma's corpse had been tossed out the window and onto the cart below. Her eyes traveled up to the ceiling. She had known her father was out drinking, but...this?

"Yer lyin'," she murmured, ignoring the look of pity the drunkard threw her way. "'Parnasse, tell him to stop lyin.'"

The boy assassin, however, had already pulled up a chair and motioned for someone to deal him in. Mouth set in a grim line, Montparnasse avoided her gaze.

They were interrupted by a loud cry and three muffled thumps from the ceiling. Seconds later, the tavern burst into whistles and cat calls, with some spilling their drinks onto the floor as they yelled bawdy encouragements.

Wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, the owner leered at Eponine. "Don't look so glum m'girl. Sounds like daddy's makin' you a new sister right now."

* * *

Wherever Grantaire was, Enjolras hoped he was enjoying himself.

He would have preferred to wait till morning. At least then, a good night's sleep might have enabled to him to view the drunkard's many failings with a gentler eye. Instead, he had laid in bed for an hour, plagued by the day's events and doomed to wrestle in the dark with all his doubts.

They had been caught unprepared, learning of the raid only minutes before it happened. The little scamp that followed Courfeyrac and Combeferre around—Gavroche, was that his name?—had burst into Musain, screaming about Inspector Javert and the squadron of officers trailing not ten minutes behind him. He had barely enough time to grab his notes and escape through the back alley with Combeferre and Joly right behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, he had seen Courfeyrac, Marius and Jehan follow the boy back toward the Elephant. He didn't see what happened to Feuilly, Bahorel or Bossuet.

Enjolras had only stopped running when Joly and Combeferre collapsed a few blocks away from the Notre Dame. No one outside their circle had known about the meeting—it had been decided on at the last minute the day before. Only one had been absent.

He had been quick to air his suspicions. Combeferre had said more evidence was needed, while Joly had insisted on seeing another suspicious, lanky character lurking near the Musain the day before. Enjolras remained unconvinced. The three had parted ways uneasily, agreeing to lay low until the group reassembled in three days.

At least, that had been the plan. Since leaving his apartment, Enjolras had scoured all of Grantaire's usual haunts—the wine shop, a rundown cafe near the Seine and some gambling halls he had been known to frequent. The only place left was a dingy tavern about 15 minutes from Musain that his friends sometimes visited when they felt like playing cards and taking pretty girls to their beds.

Enjolras wasn't an idiot. Though many of his friends were committed to the cause, none could match his chaste fervor. For the most part, he turned a blind eye to their vices and distractions. He fancied himself a reasonable man, and reasonable men did not pass judgment on how his brothers spent their free time.

As he arrived outside the tavern, he heard a sudden roar of laughter and whistles, giving him pause. He knew this place only in passing and having never set a foot inside, he was unsure what to expect. The last few hours all melted together in a blurry haze of apprehensive exhaustion. Even if Grantaire were there, Enjolras wasn't sure he had the energy to demand the truth.

To his relief, no one bothered to spare him a second glance as he strode into the room. In the corners, he could see amorous couples clumsily clawing at each other while other men watched. Others were huddled together over a pile of notes and coins, laughing as they offered up their day's earnings to Lady Luck and a deck of cards. The sight made his stomach churn.

"Well, ain't you a handsome one."

Enjolras looked down to see a petite blonde with ample curves and rosy lips smiling up at him. He froze. For a moment, he drank in her familiar features and let himself believe the past three weeks had been a nightmare—that the letter Eponine delivered had told him a lie.

"M'sieur? Are you alright?"

Enjolras swallowed. She was young again. Just as she had been when he was a small child. Before the sickness took away her color and his father's wandering hands shattered her honor. It was almost as if the pallid, shriveled creature in the casket had been a cruel dream, nothing more.

Taking courage in his stare, the girl blushed as she moved to rest a dainty hand on his forearm. "Can I int'rest you in a drink, m'sieur?"

_But it happened_, he thought. _You saw what the disease did to her. _His mother's radiant skin had turned a hideous grayish-blue, her eyes sunken in and her hands wrinkled and withered. Even now, he regretted bribing the priest to let him view the body before the funeral; the memory of his mother's desiccated corpse had haunted him ever since.

"Get away from me," Enjolras said, recoiling as her fingertips brushed his sleeve.

"Excuse me?"

"I said get away from me."

"M'sieur, I meant no offense, I—"

"I said," he growled through clenched teeth, "Get. Away."

Scowling, the girl spat in his face before stalking off toward a table in the corner. Upon closer inspection, Enjolras reflected as he wiped his eyes, she didn't look anything like his mother. It was the little things. Her eyes were too wide and the wrong shade of blue; her hair too straight and accent too rough. But in the dark, his tired mind had wanted to believe.

"Enjolras!"

The drunken shout was enough to shake him from his reverie. Looking up, he saw Grantaire stumbling toward him as the girl gestured wildly to a thickset man at the table.

"That man," she pointed an accusing finger in his direction, "There's somefink not right about that one! He threatened me! Are you gonna do somefink or just sit there on yer fat arse?"

"He did no such thing," Grantaire retorted as he finally reached Enjolras, throwing an arm over his shoulder. "He just told you to go away. Not everyone wants under your skirts Rosalind."

"Wot did you say?!"

"Now Rosalind—" Grantaire started, holding up his arms defensively.

"Are you callin' me a liar?" she hissed. The girl, Enjolras noted, was turning a rather bright shade of purple.

"Not a liar per se..."

"Why you drunken—"

"There's no need for—"

"...good-for-nothing..."

"...mindless name calling."

"...sack of shit!"

"Enough!" The squat man slammed his hands onto the table. "Somebody start talkin' sense! And I know the rest of you ain't starin' cuz so help me God, I'll tear the fucking eyes out of the next man that does."

"My friend," Grantaire coughed, "though a gifted orator—really, you should hear him speak—is a bit thick when it comes to women."

Enjolras scowled. "I can speak for myself—"

"...He's just not very good at explaining himself. You see," Grantaire continued, raising his voice.

"...Grantaire, I don't need your help..."

"And Rosalind bears an uncanny resemblance to his recently dead mother—oof!" Grantaire doubled over, clutching his stomach where Enjolras had elbowed him. Nostrils flaring, Enjolras itched to wrap his hands around his friend's neck and shake him soundly. "See? He's still a bit broken up about it."

"It seems all of Paris is grieving." The stocky man snorted, waving a disgruntled Rosalind away as he fixed Enjolras with a toothy grin. "Well you're in good company m'sieur. Mad'moiselle Jondrette here has a dead sister. Isn't that right, m'girl?"

It was then that Enjolras noticed her staring at him from the corner. She looked decidedly worse since he last saw her—there were now dark circles under her wide eyes and her skin seemed to have taken on a sallow tinge. But the worst was the way she held herself, her shoulders hunched as if she expected someone to hit her. _Can this really be the same person?_ he thought. _Can this be the same girl who outsmarted the police and mocked the revolution?_

"Perhaps," the man turned his laughing gaze toward Eponine, "you'd have more fun fuckin' away the pain with him. He's prettier, that's for sure."

"Shut yer mouth," said a surly young man dressed in foppish clothes. "She's mine. I bought her fair and square."

Enjolras felt a strange constriction in his chest as he watched her bow her head and hide behind her hair. He wasn't blind to the darker side of survival, especially for women. But imagining the dark youth's lips roaming across the skin of an obviously unwilling girl made the blood boil in his veins.

The words slipped out before he had time to second guess himself.

"How much?"

* * *

A hush fell over the table. When Eponine finally dared to lift her gaze from the floor, she was greeted by the sight of the not-so-bourgeois boy pulling out a wallet from his jacket pocket. Behind him, his drunk friend whispered weak warnings against the Patron-Minette and the infamous Thenardiers. Hope blossomed, but then quickly withered inside her breast. _It's just jumping from one man's bed and into another's._

"What?" Montparnasse said.

"I want to know how much you paid for her."

"That's none of your concern, you bourgeois pig." Eponine sidled outside of Montparnasse's reach as he tried to grab her arm. She'd seen the bruises on girls who had spent a night with Montparnasse—Eponine harbored no illusions about what sort of lover he would be. But the bourgeois boy...She hadn't pegged him as the whoring type. Not with his pretty speeches about equality.

"I asked you a question," Enjolras repeated in a clipped voice. "Don't make me repeat myself."

Montparnasse's handsome face twisted into an ugly scowl as he leapt from his seat, knocking over a few drinks. To his credit, Enjolras seemed unmoved by the display—though whether that was bravery or ignorance of the danger he'd put himself in was unclear.

"Twelve sous. Another seven for the room," the owner interjected, a languid smile stretching across his face. _Twelve sous? _Eponine's cheeks burned with shame._ Is that what I'm worth to you, pere?_

Enjolras turned toward the owner. "Monsieur, you seem to have a keen eye for business," he said, tossing a coin onto the table. "For the room."

"Now wait just a minute—" Montparnasse snarled. "I've already paid. I want what I'm due."

"Boy's got a point," the owner said, biting into the coin. "No reason you both can't have her."

Enjolras pulled out a note from his wallet. Folding the bill in half, he dropped it onto the table and slid it in front of Montparnasse with one hand. "For your trouble."

The rest was a blur. One minute, three men were negotiating who she would spend the night with. The next, she was being led out of the tavern by a beautiful, albeit unhinged, man and his drunken friend.

Since Montparnasse had dragged her into the tavern, a quiet rain had blanketed the city in a light mist. The streets were slick, gleaming silvery-blue in the moonlight. When she closed her eyes, Eponine thought she could smell the sharp scent of country grass. And for just a split second, she imagined the warm fingers around her wrist belonged to Marius and that he was taking her home—not the dingy flat next door, but his real home—where she could rest safe and sound in his embrace. But all she had to do was open them again and the illusion was shattered.

Enjolras seemed oblivious to both her and his friend. Not a word had been so much as uttered since leaving the tavern, though the drunkard—Rosalind had called him R, but Eponine was certain that wasn't his real name—occasionally muttered expletives under his breath. It couldn't last. Someone would have to speak up, but not her. As long as she kept her mouth shut, she could ignore the churning in the pit of her stomach.

"Are you mad?" the drunk blurted a few minutes later. "Do you know how close you got to being _killed_?"

Eponine's eyes flickered over to "R." He had stopped in the middle of the street, arms raised in exasperation.

"Don't be dramatic," Enjolras replied tiredly. "What were you even doing there tonight?"

"Do you know who that was?" Grantaire jabbed a finger toward Eponine. "Do you know who _she_ is? More importantly, do you know who her _father_ is?"

Enjolras glanced in her direction briefly before fixing the drunkard with a steely glare. "You of all people should know that sort of thing doesn't matter to me."

"Well it should! You just _stole_ a night with Thenardier's daughter—yes, _that_ Thenardier—from a member of the Patron-Minette! Those guys don't fuck around!"

Eponine winced. Her father's reputation would always be the noose around her neck, but this was a new low. She had finally fallen far enough to be scorned by a drunk ne'er-do-well.

"Like yer any better," she interrupted. "I've seen you 'round before, drinkin' and gamblin' like other men."

"At least I don't _kill_ people, unlike your lover," Grantaire sneered.

"He ain't my lover," she spat. "I don't kill people neither."

"You're still a whore!"

Eponine tore her arm from Enjolras' grip, her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides. "You rich boys are all the same. It's all sweet nothin's till you've had yer bit of fun. When yer manhood's gone limp, it's back ter callin' us whores and vipers. Well, joke's on you, _m'sieur_. Maybe I should tell your leader what _you_ do behind closed doors?"

"I-I-I don't know what you're talking about," Grantaire said, the blood draining from his face.

"Oh that's not what I've heard. Whores talk, y'know. Especially the ones whose clients have more...exotic tastes." Eponine subtly nodded her head toward a confused Enjolras. "Should I tell the pretty boy?"

"You stay away from him." Eponine was almost surprised by the venom in Grantaire's voice. _Touched a nerve, did we?_ She smirked. _Careful. The marble man might notice._ "You stay away from him or I'll—"

"You'll wot? Hit me?"

"That's enough," Enjolras said, pulling them apart. "Go home, Grantaire. You and I have important matters to discuss in the morning."

"But Enjolras—"

"Go."

Grantaire seemed as if he were going to protest, but a stern look left him open-mouthed and brimming with tears. Shoulders hunched and head bowed, he never once looked back as he staggered down the street. Eponine felt a twinge of pity as she watched him slowly disappear into the darkness. It was nearly enough to make her want to apologize. Nearly, but not quite.

When they could no longer see his figure in the distance, she found herself suddenly wishing he had never left. At least with the drunk there, she could put off her fate. Now it was just her, the bourgeois boy, and the money on the table in the tavern they had just left.

They had stopped not far from his flat. Over the past few days, Eponine had found herself passing through the area more often as Azelma's condition worsened. There was an odd comfort in knowing such a fine man lived in a tenement made of crumbling plaster and creaky floorboards. But now the sight of the building filled her with dread.

"You're free to go."

"W-wot?" Eponine turned to see him staring at her, his eyes guarded and wary.

"You're free," he said slowly, dropping his eyes to the cobblestone. "You can go wherever you like."

"I dun understand...you paid fer the room and then with Parnasse...I thot you wanted..." Eponine waved her hands awkwardly in the air. "Wot men always want."

"Not all men want...that," he said, coughing. "And it was obvious you didn't want _him_."

"I didn't ask you to save me. I don' want yer charity."

"Yes, well. The result is the same. You are free."

"But you paid..."

"That doesn't matter."

"It matters to me!" Eponine said, marching up to him angrily. "I didn't wont 'Parnasse but I didn't wont this either!"

He had said she was free to go wherever she wanted. But when her father was done fucking his whore and Montparnasse told him what had happened...she would have to either produce an absurd amount or face his fists. And her mother...her mother had let her go...and she would rather die than let Marius see her so wretched.

Enjolras stared at her for a moment, his slightly parted lips the only evidence of his confusion. In the lamplight, she could see the beginnings of dark blue rings under his eyes and how his cheekbones stood out more prominently than they had when she first met him. He was still handsome, though perhaps not quite as ethereal.

For once, he seemed...human.

"Then think of us as even," Enjolras said, taking her left hand into both of his. His hands were big, engulfing her in their heat as he pressed a cool coin into her palm. "For helping me that night after the rally."

She didn't have to look to know he was being overgenerous. Licking her chapped lips, Eponine forced herself to stand still and not give into her desire to bolt to the other end of Paris. She owed him at least that much. "Why are you bein' kind to me?"

He shook his head and closed his eyes. "I'm sorry about your sister."

"I'm sorry about yer mother," she whispered, squeezing his hand. His eyes fluttered open then, shining with something she had seen a million times before, but never directed at her. It took her breath away until the only thing she could feel was the rush of heat as he dipped his head toward hers.

* * *

He wasn't sure what possessed him to kiss her. Perhaps it was the way her voice cracked, or how her eyes had instinctively drifted shut when he cupped her face in his hands. Or maybe, it was just as simple as the feel of her cool skin underneath his fingers.

It was brief, his lips only barely brushing against hers. Still, it was his first and it left his head pounding with the bittersweet realization that this heady feeling was what he had given up for France. Resting his forehead against hers, Enjolras reveled in the momentary comfort of being close to another person.

"I—"

"Shh..." She stretched up onto the tip of her toes, fisting her hands into his jacket as she arched her small body against him. Eponine kissed like she talked—rough and teasing. And once she coaxed his mouth open with her tongue, he was lost.

To him, she tasted of smoke and rain. When he finally pulled away, she followed, leaving a burning trail of wet kisses from his jaw to his neck. "Not here," he said, breath ragged as her fingers began unbuttoning his waistcoat. "Not in public."

"Then lead the way."

They stumbled down the street—every few meters, one of them would stop to continue their exploration of the other's mouth. It was a miracle that they even made it back to his tenement, up the stairs and into his flat, where they collapsed onto his bed. There, they were barely more than shadows groping clumsily at each other in the dark.

"Do you rich boys always have so many buttons?" Enjolras didn't answer as Eponine slipped her fingers under his shirt.

The room spun around him as memories of days long past seeped into the corners of his vision. Eponine's nails against his skin reminded him of his mother's perfectly manicured hands. The sight of her straddling his hips brought him back to the day he rode his horse from his father's estate. He was burning, but her breathy gasps did nothing to silence his mother's sobs from ringing in his ears.

He flipped her under him, only to find her staring up at him in a half-lidded daze. And for the first time since that day she crashed into him, Enjolras saw her. Bathed in moonlight, Eponine was prettier than a gamine had any right to be. In another life, she would have been the kind of girl other men fought over. As it was, she was broken and the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. And for once, he no longer heard the ghostly echoes of his past.

Drinking her in, Enjolras relished the feel of her small hands clinging tightly to his shoulders as if he were the only thing keeping her from being carried away on the wind. He lost himself in her again and again with feverish abandon until he felt Eponine come apart beneath him, her face twisted in blissful oblivion. He watched transfixed, until suddenly she whispered his name and all he could see was white.

* * *

She was careful not to wake him as she slipped out from under his arms and into her clothes. His window was filthy, but she could still make out the beginnings of thin, pink tendrils unfolding across the inky sky. Paris would soon rise from her slumber, and there was much to do before Eponine could go home.

The coin he had given her was heavy in her palm. Briefly, Eponine thought of all the things she could buy. Some food for Gavroche. A new chemise. Maybe a book for Marius or flowers for Azelma. It would be more than enough to please her father, though not enough to buy her freedom from Montparnasse's bed.

Glancing back at a sleeping Enjolras, Eponine softly smiled. He seemed peaceful, innocent even. Bending over, she laid a gentle kiss on his brow. Though her fingers itched to stroke his face, she settled for fisting her hands in the blankets.

"If I'd seen you first..." She let the words linger, her thoughts unfinished.

In the end, the decision was easy.

Eponine felt lighter as she crept out the door, though a small part of her wished that he would wake up and call her back to bed. But the night was over, and he would never follow so long as a new day was rising just over the horizon.

* * *

When Enjolras woke, the sun was already high in the sky and the sheets were cold. Part of him wondered if the whole thing had been a fantastical manifestation of his grief. He might have even believed it, if not for his clothes strewn haphazardly on the floor.

He shook his head. Grantaire would be expecting him soon. It was Wednesday, but today, Saint Michele would be bereft of students. Perhaps, after sorting out the entire fiasco, he could visit Combeferre to discuss future rallies or maybe he would return home and plan his next speech. Whatever he decided, the time for lazing in bed had long since passed.

Throwing off the covers, Enjolras was startled by the clatter of something metal. Curious, he peered over the edge of the bed.

There, in the middle of the floor, was a coin.

AN: So uh, yeah. I know Azelma's not in anything but the book, but I thought I'd explain one possible reason for her absence in the movie/musical here. And I know Hugo mostly portrayed Enjolras as this person who never wavered in his convictions, but I think all leaders have doubts—even if they don't show them to anyone else. I wanted to show that leaving behind his family would have been an actual sacrifice that weighed on him enough to make him vulnerable... Not sure how I did...but I tried my best :).


	4. Chapter 4: Brotherhood, May-June 1832

**AN:** So this is it, the last chapter. It feels really good to finish something that I started out writing. Thanks to those who've read it and made it this far, and special thanks to those who reviewed. More reviews and feedback still welcome though! :)

* * *

**Chapter Four: **Brotherhood, May-June 1832

The next time he saw her, she was flirting with an oblivious Marius in the staircase. The sight made his skin crawl, but there was nothing to be done about it. Instead, he forced himself to focus on the task at hand. Courfeyrac was late with news from the other sects and Combeferre was hunched in the corner making a list of all the supplies they still needed. The rest were flying in and out of Musain, running all over Paris for the cause.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Feuilly waving him over. Sighing, Enjolras dropped his pen onto the table and gestured to the fan maker that he would be there momentarily. Staring up at him was a blank sheet of paper. He had been trying for the past hour to write something that would inspire the people, but as soon as he picked up the pen, someone would always come with some pressing matter that needed his input.

That's when he heard it.

Her laugh was light and musical, not at all like the husky rasp he sometimes heard in his dreams. And it was pure, with none of the sarcasm or thinly veiled disdain she reserved for him. Enjolras grit his teeth. There were a thousand things that needed his attention, and not one of them involved an insipid, love-struck gamine.

"Marius!" Enjolras tried not to feel pleased as the boy stumbled over his feet. "Courfeyrac is more than an hour late. See if you can find him."

Enjolras almost felt guilty as Marius flashed him a beatific grin and scurried down the stairs without a second thought to Eponine. She stared after Pontmercy, mouth parted and eyes downcast. And then she was gone, dashing after Marius without so much as a glance in his direction.

"Well that didn't exactly go the way you planned, did it?"

He hadn't noticed when Grantaire arrived, but the drunkard had seated himself across from Enjolras with one arm draped lazily over the back of the chair. In his other hand was an unopened bottle of Cabernet.

"It's barely noon. Too early, even for you," Enjolras said, lowering his gaze back to the blank page in front of him.

"Bit cold to chase off the little gamine. Even for you."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Things had changed ever since Enjolras had accused the drunkard of selling them out to the police. Grantaire had simply sat there that fateful morning, listening in stony silence, and when Enjolras had finished, the drunk had shown him the door. It was the first time he could remember being on the receiving end of Grantaire's wrath. The memory left an unpleasant taste in his mouth, but he had refused to apologize. To his surprise, Grantaire still came to meetings, but now he rarely spoke to anyone and spent most of his time drinking alone in the corner.

"Don't think I didn't see you, Enjolras." Grantaire leaned forward and snatched up the blank paper from the table. "Trying so hard not to watch her fawn over him. It's sickening, really."

"Do you have a point?"

Grantaire waved the paper in front of his face. "General Lamarque is on his death bed. The workers are angry. And the great Enjolras is at a loss for words because of a skinny street rat who's in love with someone else." He snorted. "It's pathetic."

In truth, Enjolras barely thought of the night he had spent in Eponine's arms, though he kept the coin she had left behind in his pocket. At first, he had planned on returning it to her. But then days had turned into weeks and he eventually stopped looking. Lately, he spent most of his time at Musain or in his apartment—he had long since stopped attending classes. Now, his days were preoccupied with rhetoric, guns and the logistics of mounting a revolution.

But his nights...his nights were spent dreaming of dark eyes, breathy moans and wild tangles of hair spilling over his sheets.

"Her name is Eponine," Enjolras said, his voice like steel. "And you're wrong."

"Am I now?" Grantaire snapped. His brown eyes, which were usually glazed over, bore right through Enjolras, searching for the answer to some unknown question.

"There is only the cause," Enjolras said through gritted teeth. "There is only France. And now, if you'll excuse me, Feuilly needs my help with something."

He didn't wait for an answer, but he felt the weight of Grantaire's stare for the rest of the evening.

* * *

Lamarque was dead and the wine was flowing.

After Jehan had returned an hour earlier with his clothes soaked and his golden curls plastered to his forehead, Courfeyrac declared the Les Amis would work no further until the storm let up. Enjolras had been keen to protest but relented when he noticed the dark circles under his friends' eyes.

The laughter had been loud and the songs bawdy. At some point, Jehan had begun reciting a poem about some fair-haired beauty to Bahorel and Combeferre, who listened eagerly with a thoughtful expression on his face. Meanwhile, Joly and Bossuet regaled Feuilly with stories of their shared mistress. The only noticeable absence was Marius, who had failed to show up for any meetings ever since he had barreled into the cafe last Friday after canvassing in Saint Michele.

_Undoubtedly pining after his mystery woman_. Enjolras grimaced. It had been amusing at first. Marius had never been one to wax poetic over a woman's charms—one of his few virtues—though the novelty soon wore off as it became increasingly clear the freckled boy was losing interest in the cause. He wondered if Eponine knew about Marius' infatuation. For her sake, he hoped she didn't.

His musings were cut short, however, when Grantaire slammed his bottle onto the table, face flushed and covered in a thin layer of sweat. "My friends! Our leader is unusually contemplative this evening. Tell us Apollo, what keeps you so quiet tonight? It's unkind to keep secrets from your brothers."

Silence fell over the table and Enjolras found himself on the receiving end of his friends' stares. Not for the first time, he cursed Grantaire's seemingly new fixation with his moods. Even now, though clearly inebriated, there was a clarity in Grantaire's gaze that unnerved him. _I don't know what you want from me_.

"I was merely noting Marius' absence," he retorted. "Again."

His friends reacted with a mixture of laughter and sighs of disappointment. Though they might respect his devotion to the cause, Enjolras knew they often whispered when his back was turned. They were a strange group, open and free with their love in a way that he was incapable. They teased him whenever he turned down a pretty girl, dubbing him the marble man. None, except for perhaps Grantaire—very little Enjolras did escaped his notice—suspected he had faltered in his vow of celibacy. And that was the way he preferred it.

"Ah yes! A toast to our new Don Juan!" Grantaire vaulted onto the table and raised his bottle high above his head, spilling wine everywhere. "And his ghostly maiden of supreme loveliness!"

"Here, here!" Courfeyrac laughed as he slapped Feuilly on the back, causing the fan maker to sputter.

"Say, what about that little gamine that follows him around?" Joly chimed in. "That poor girl...what was her name?"

"Who? Marius' shadow?" Jehan asked. "Eveline or something like that?"

"No, it was something odd," Courfeyrac interrupted, shaking his head. "Gavroche told me once—he seemed to know her. Epponina?"

"Isn't she that Jondrette girl?"

"I thought she was a Thenardier..."

"Does it matter?" he heard himself say. "She will find out sooner or later and her broken heart is none of our concern."

He felt Grantaire's eyes upon him then, but Enjorlas dared not meet his gaze. Instead, he stared at the drink in front of him. His glass was nearly full and the wine had grown tepid, but he swallowed a mouthful to hide his discomfort.

"That's cruel, even for you Enjolras," Jehan murmured.

"You don't even know her name, Jehan," he countered. "Somehow, I doubt she'd appreciate your pity."

Awkward silence replaced the merry laughter that had echoed throughout the cafe, filling Enjolras with guilt. There would be few opportunities in the coming days to enjoy themselves. Looking around the room, he saw that while Jehan sulked, the rest of the group suddenly seemed engrossed with the floor or ceiling. Even Grantaire seemed without a witty remark.

Enjolras sighed. "My apologies, Jehan. Your compassion does you credit." He placed a comforting hand on the poet's shoulder. "I am merely restless tonight."

"Think nothing of it," Jehan said, forcing a smile.

"Well then," Courfeyrac cleared his throat. "What do you think this mystery woman looks like?"

Eager for distraction, the group launched into a heated debate over Marius' lover—the color of her hair, eyes and whether or not she had a pleasing figure. He stayed long enough to hear Bahorel and Jehan argue she was blonde to Courfeyrac's assertion she was a red-haired temptress before slipping out of the cafe.

The night air was thick and humid from the storm, which had petered out into a light shower. Closing his eyes, he let the rain cool the heat from his cheeks. _I should not have lashed out at Jehan_. _He did not deserve it_. He debated leaving his friends and walking home. Grantaire had likely already noticed his absence, but the others wouldn't until they were too drunk to remember he had been there in the first place.

Enjolras was unsure how long he stood there, but his hair was now plastered to his brow and his skin was slick with rain. He would have to make a decision soon, or Grantaire would come down to see where he had gone.

"Didn't figure you ta be the type to like the rain."

Enjolras slowly opened his eyes. He should have been more surprised to see her there, huddled in the darkness, drenched and shivering. She looked even smaller in her soaked clothes, which hung off her bones in tatters. Her black hair shrouded her face from view, but he could tell she had been crying from the way her voice cracked.

"Are you mad? You'll catch your death."

"I thought it was none o' yer concern," she spat, her bare toes curling under her chemise.

"What happened to your shoes?"

"None o' yer business. I'm justa dirty little street rat ta all of you bourgeois boys."

Enjolras shrugged off his jacket—which though damp from the rain, was still dry on the inside—and draped it over her shoulders. Crouching, he tried to brush the hair from her eyes so he could see her face, but she slapped away his hand. "How much did you hear?"

Her laugh, sharp and bitter, rattled in her chest.

"_Everything_."

"What was said up there, I—"

"He asked me to find her," she sniffled, burying her head into her arms. "So I did. And I took him to her."

"What on Earth possessed you to do that?"

"I thot maybe if I did as he asked, he'd see how I felt or she'd have a laff at him. Go on, call me an idiot."

Breathing deeply, Enjolras braced himself. He had nothing kind to say, but it was nonetheless, something she needed to hear.

"Eponine," she froze as he spoke her name, "Pontmercy doesn't love you. Not in the way you want. And he never will. You're only an idiot if you don't face the truth."

The sound of the rain pattering against cobblestones hung between them, echoing into the night. Her stillness made his stomach queasy, his hands itching at his side. But what would he do? Embrace her? Comfort her and tell her that one day Marius might finally return her affections? Even if he tried, she would be more likely to slap him or fly off somewhere he couldn't follow.

"And wot do you know about facing the truth?" Eponine said, her voice full of venom. "Yer leadin' all of 'em to their deaths. They're all goin' to throw away their lives 'coz they believe in you and 'coz they're too stupid to know better and it'll all be fer nothin.' The poor won't mourn ye and the rich'll be glad yer gone. And you, bourgeois boy, when they shoot you up full 'o bullets, the rest of us will still be here, alone, starvin' and cold. If you were ta face the truth, you'd call off this nonsense befo' it cost ya yer life."

Her words were like icy daggers; they were the fears that kept him awake at night, that gave him pause whenever he saw Gavroche trailing behind Courfeyrac or a child with a rosette pinned to his or her breast. Grantaire often mocked his unbridled faith in the people, but he had always been able to brush off the drunkard's cynicism without wavering. But from her...Enjolras began to doubt.

"So this is what you truly think."

But Eponine was done speaking. She had buried her face deeper into her arms, shoulders heaving with soundless grief. For the first time since Lamarque died, Enjolras allowed himself to remember his dead mother and think on how her passing meant there was not a soul left in France who truly loved him. His father's words echoed in his ears, and he wondered if the old tyrant had been right. Perhaps he _had_ thrown away his future.

Upstairs, his friends' joyful voices trickled down down the stairs, leaving him with a bitter sense of loneliness. Looking back at Eponine, Enjolras sighed. "You need to get out of the rain."

"Piss off."

"Why did you come then? Marius isn't here tonight."

"I said piss off."

He was about to give up when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. On her arm were two large purple splotches, roughly the size of a man's fist.

"Who did this to you?" he asked, brushing his fingers against one of the bruises.

"Go away," she spat, recoiling as she shielded her face from view. Frustrated, Enjolras was about to try convincing her to go upstairs when everything clicked. The missing shoes. The bruises. Her reluctance to look him in the eye.

"Eponine," he said, dread pooling in his stomach. "Show me your face."

"No."

"I'm not going to leave until you. do."

She paused. Enjolras thought he would have to try convincing her again when she slowly lifted her head from her arms. Licking his lips, he pulled aside her hair, breathing in sharply as he took in the damage. Above her temple was a deep gash that had crusted over with dried blood, and her lower lip was swollen and bleeding. But the worst was the bruise on her throat. It was an angry mark, and it chilled him to think who had given it to her.

"That man from before. Did he do this?"

"I told you. It ain't yer business," she spat.

"Why won't you let me help you?"

"I don' wont yer help m'sieur. Not till you call it off."

"What? The protest? You know I can't."

"You _can_." She grabbed the front of his shirt. "They'll listen to you!"

Her eyes were wild and desperate as they searched his face. He thought it odd that she would beg for the lives of the Les Amis, and then he realized the truth. Anger coursed through his veins as he ripped her hands from his shirt.

"Is that why you came here? To beg for Marius' life?"

"Fuck you." Nostrils flaring, she punched him in the arm. "Fuck you and yer revolution."

Throwing off his jacket, she shoved past him into the night. He debated following her, but his pride was unyielding. He watched until he could no longer see her figure in the distance, anger slowly dissipating into a strange hollowness. She hadn't looked back. Not once.

The rain kissed his face with her cold lips, washing away the emptiness that threatened to overwhelm him. There was no returning to Musain, but Enjolras had no desire to retreat to his empty flat. He eyed his jacket, which had been sitting in a puddle in the gutter. Picking it up, he slung it over his shoulder and turned on his heel to walk in the opposite direction. He bumped into a familiar man, but thought nothing of the encounter. Instead, he relived Eponine's hatred over and over until he felt numb.

She was right. It wasn't too late. He could call it off. He could go back to school, crawling on his hands and knees, begging his professors to grant him a second chance in exchange for abandoning his radical politics. And if that failed, he could go back to his father's estate. It was clear his aunt wanted him to—why else would she have paid Eponine so much to deliver that letter?

He could go back and marry some well-bred doll his father picked for him. Together, they could whelp some squalling, red-faced babes to carry on the family name. And when he grew old, he would recall this time of his life, throw his head back and thank the Heavens he had been delivered from an untimely, meaningless death.

Enjolras knew that he could do all those things and still find some degree of happiness. But doing so would mean forgetting her, and that was simply impossible.

* * *

Their dance ended much like it had began—abruptly and without warning.

He had seen her in the early afternoon, talking as always with Pontmercy. She was dressed in men's clothing, an ill-fitting cap pulled down over her brow. No doubt she thought her disguise clever, but it would never fool _him_.

He watched as Courfeyrac set her to work piling pieces of broken furniture. She kept her face hidden, but there was the barest hint of a smirk that made Enjolras' blood boil. This was the fruit of his labor, his life's work. She, who had only ever mocked revolution, had no right to stand on such hallowed ground. If Marius hadn't stuffed that letter into her hand, he would have sent her away himself.

As it was, Eponine stood there, staring after Marius with tears welling in her eyes. It was nothing new—how many times had he seen her pine after his friend?—and yet, it still stung. Part of him was glad to see her suffer.

But his satisfaction, however tasteless, was short-lived. She was gone as soon as Bahorel's booming laughter jolted her back to reality, scuttling away before he could utter her name.

If he had known that was the last time he'd see her smile—even if it was meant for someone else—he would have run after her.

The rest happened so quickly. Dusk fell. Javert's plot had been thwarted and the old inspector had been locked up. Soon after, the National Guard had come guns blazing and it was only then that Enjolras saw how ill-prepared they were. What did they know of military maneuvers? What did they know of strategy and tactics? For however long the skirmish lasted, Enjolras' world tasted of fear and smelt of gun smoke, punctuated only by the rush of adrenaline pumping through his veins.

He hadn't noticed the soldier—a familiar man in an ill-fitting uniform with sallow skin and a mop of dark hair—until the point of his musket was already aimed at Marius' heart.

And then everything stopped.

She had charged in from nowhere, her tiny hands gripping the barrel of the gun. He heard the loud boom and watched her crumple. He saw the color drain from the soldier's face as he watched her hat fly off her head and her hair, slick with red, tumbled down her shoulders.

Enjolras didn't realize he had pulled the trigger until the soldier fell to the ground, clutching at the blood gushing from his throat. By then Marius was making his stand atop the barricade, dangling a makeshift torch over a powder keg.

He wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms, but in the end it was Marius who cradled her to sleep, whispering comforts that her eyes drank in with a pitiful sweetness. She spoke of rain—even though there was not a cloud in the sky—and flowers. Then, with the last of her strength, she caressed Marius' cheek and her dark eyes fluttered shut. Her last words were so soft he almost didn't hear them.

"You know, I think I was a little bit in love with you."

For a moment, he let himself pretend she was speaking to him. But she was gone, warm in Marius' embrace, a small smile on her lips.

Even in death, Eponine never spared him a glance.

* * *

His friends were all dead.

It had played out exactly as she said. And now, only he was left unscathed on the second floor of the wine shop. He hadn't seen how Courfeyrac or Bahorel or Joly died—he'd just climbed over their bodies while seeking cover behind some scattered crates. At some point—it seemed like hours ago—he had heard Jehan scream and seen Bossuet gutted with the pointy end of a musket. Marius had been shot just before the barricades fell.

They had dropped all pretense of revolution. Even he, their fearless leader, had felt like a chastened child running from his inevitable punishment. It had been him and Combeferre at the last. But then, his ears rang and his nostrils were filled with the acrid scent of gunpowder. And just like that, his gentle friend was gone.

It had taken her death to see the folly of his gamble. He thought of the papers left half-finished on his desk. He remembered how death had shrunken Gavroche's already tiny body, and how his carelessness had been the cause of it all. The guilt crushed him under its weight. He wondered if Eponine, watching from her heavenly perch, would forgive him. Somehow he doubted it.

His life, what little was left of it, was filled with deep foreboding. The only solace was the thought that perhaps their deaths would inspire the people to rise; that the blood split would purge inequality from the cobblestones of Paris; that one day, poverty would be a distant memory and all men would be brothers under God.

But perhaps, it would be as Grantaire drunkenly sang at their last, melancholy hurrah. Once he was dead, who would remember them? Who would remember that Combeferre liked blue, that Courfeyrac liked his coffee black or that Joly was a hypochondriac? Who would remember that Marius had died with a broken heart or that Bossuet was the unluckiest man on Earth? Who would remember Jehan's hideous clothes, Feuilly's weathered hands or Bahorel's laughing smirk?

And when he was gone, who would remember Eponine?

Who would remember him?

Enjolras tensed as he heard footsteps thundering up the stairs. Instinct told him to crouch deeper, to make himself as invisible as possible, but pride forced him to stand tall with one fist clutching the battered and torn flag of his revolution.

The door swung open with a bang, and it took every ounce of concentration not to flinch. The leader of the group squinted, his beady eyes studying Enjolras from underneath a heavy brow.

"You the one in charge here?"

Enjolras didn't hesitate. "Yes."

"The other barricades have fallen. No more friends to help you now."

He had suspected as much, but hearing it aloud was somehow worse. He thought briefly of those cramped rooms where he and other sect leaders had argued Lamarque's funeral was the perfect time to stage an uprising. He recalled the few who had been more reluctant and wondered if he had helped sign their death warrants too.

With a wave of the squadron leader's hand, twelve muskets were now aimed at Enjolras. Closing his eyes, he breathed in one last lungful of hot, dusty air. It was the sweetest he'd ever tasted.

"Wait!"

_I know that voice. _Opening his eyes, he saw a disheveled Grantaire gasping for breath at the top of the stairs.

"Who are you?" the leader barked. Muskets that had been lowered in bewilderment were now pointed at his friend.

"I'm one of them."

"You realize confession means death," the squad leader said, brows furrowed. "There's not a scratch on you. Don't throw away your life needlessly."

Grantaire said nothing. His feet seemed to glide over the floorboards, until suddenly, his friend was once more at his side.

"Do you permit it?" Grantaire's eyes were calm, yet overflowing with emotion.

Enjolras smiled. How pitiful that he only now understood what Grantaire had desired of him. Cold and marble he may be, but it warmed him to know a man who believed in nothing was willing to die for something.

And then the moment was over.

"Any last words?"

Enjolras simply raised his fist, flag in hand. There was a deafening crack, and then he was flying out the window, chest burning as his eyes drank in one last glimpse of the sky over Paris. Falling, he was acutely aware he had mere seconds left, but in his mind, they stretched like hours.

He relived them all—every moment she had been just out of his reach and he had let her go. He remembered her crying in the rain, writhing in his bed, mocking him at his doorstep and finally, dashing down the snow-covered streets of Paris. As his vision darkened, he made her a promise.

_Wait for me, Eponine._ _This time I will follow._

**End.**

* * *

**AN: **Truth be told, I wrote this as a standalone prequel to a much longer semi-AU reincarnation fic I was writing. I had about 16,000 words of that already written when I kinda got side-tracked writing this. I'm hoping to begin posting that soon, so stay tuned.


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